"Have we been discovered?"
Among the group of killers, one finally broke the silence.
"What do you think?" another snapped, his eyes narrowed in irritation. "Use your eyes. He's already seen us. Stop hesitating like a fool. If we don't kill him now, something worse will happen."
Without waiting for agreement, the man pushed the door open and rushed inside. His steps were swift, two strides bringing him to the bedside. In a smooth motion, he pulled out a silenced pistol and aimed straight for Zenkichi's head.
"Whoosh!"
The bullet tore through the air, whistling toward its target with lethal precision.
But what they saw next stopped their hearts.
Zenkichi did not flinch. His eyes were cold, his expression unreadable. There was no fear, no desperation, not even surprise—only calm defiance, as though a gunshot meant nothing to him.
And indeed, to him, it didn't.
Bullets could never harm Arakawa Zenkichi. His body, strengthened beyond comprehension, was like steel wrapped in flesh. The assassin's weapon might as well have been a child's toy.
Yet, for the sake of the game he had created, Zenkichi made a show of reacting. At the last moment, he shifted to the side, his hand tearing a strip of cloth from his bed sheet and whipping it up. The fabric snapped taut, intercepting the bullet as if by miracle.
"..."
The killers froze. Their jaws tightened, their eyes widened. None of them could comprehend what they had just witnessed. A piece of cloth—against a bullet? Impossible. And yet, there it was.
"If I hadn't prepared that in advance," Zenkichi said, voice edged with feigned panic, "you might have killed me just now."
The acting was flawless, his tone carrying just the right hint of fear. Inside, however, he was amused.
"Kill him!"
The hesitation vanished. Though confused, the assassins knew one thing for certain: their target was still alive. And until he was dead, nothing else mattered.
Weapons flashed in every direction. One assassin leveled another gun, pulling the trigger without hesitation. A second lunged forward with a dagger, blade glinting as it aimed for Zenkichi's throat. Another produced a needle tipped with poison, his strike swift and precise, eager to end the fight with a single touch.
Zenkichi blinked at the strange variety of attacks.
"…?"
Poison needles, daggers, bullets—these killers seemed to have prepared every method imaginable to bring him down.
For a moment, he was almost impressed. Almost.
But panic? That was absent. The gap between them was too vast. To Zenkichi, their combined assault felt like children waving sticks.
With a casual roll, he slid from the bed and dropped to the floor. The sudden movement left the assassins momentarily stunned.
It looked clumsy, even foolish, but somehow it worked—every strike missed him. The bullet buried itself into the headboard, the dagger sliced through air, and the poisoned needle pricked harmlessly against the mattress.
The killers gawked. How had he dodged everything with such a ridiculous maneuver?
And yet, here he was, untouched, calmly lying on the floor, eyes gleaming as though the entire encounter was nothing more than entertainment.
____
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